Stockholm (post one)
Title: Stockholm
Rating: PG to PG-13
Summary: A multi-chapter Sarkney fic, starting with Sark's capture in The Telling and continuing on as an AU. Sark and Sydney form an uneasy partnership under the control of Irina Derevko.
Distribution: Just ask.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias.
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
Sark makes his way through the crowded club. He has business here, but of a more casual type, and his clothing reflects this- blue shirt, grey jacket and jeans.
He spots Ferguson sitting alone in the middle of the room, waiting. He strides over, and Ferguson rises to meet him. They shake hands. “Mr. Williams, correct?”
Sark nods. “And Mr. Ferguson.” They take seats. Ferguson begins.
“So I understand you represent Veller and Michaels, Inc.”
“Also correct. The head of our branch is interested in expanding its land-”
“Freeze!”
“Freeze!”
Sark barely has time to glimpse the face of Michael Vaughn before his head is slammed into the glass table. He is jerked back up, and sees the CIA agent pointing his gun at him.
“See,” he snarls. “When I have a gun trained on you, I don’t just pull the trigger.”
Sark senses his nose bleeding. His head is throbbing. And Michael Vaughn is the last person he wants to see right now- apart from a blonde Sydney Bristow, standing next to Vaughn and pointing her gun at a bewildered Ferguson. “Thank you,” Sark gasps out.
He hadn’t meant to sound so- slam.
“You’re welcome,” Vaughn returns. Sark’s head throbs harder.
“Where the hell is my father?” Sydney asks, her voice sharp.
Act desperate, Sark tells himself, but not too desperate. Only what they need to know.
“Not a problem,” he says, breathing heavily. “My loyalties are flexible. Sloane . . . and your father . . . are in Mexico City.”
He sees Vaughn and Sydney exchange glances, no doubt wondering why he gave up so easily. Well, they’d understand soon enough.
He is slightly disappointed. He would have liked to have made that deal.
* * *
LOS ANGELES
The CIA takes him.
They place him in a maximum security cell.
Sark is almost certain that it is the one Irina inhabited for so long.
He has only been there an hour and he doesn’t understand how she stood it.
A big, bald-headed man is questioning him and speaking into his headset. Director Kendall, he was arrogantly informed. He’s just like a bull, Sark thinks amusedly. His face remains impassive.
Kendall is speaking to Sydney, field name Mountaineer, who is in Mexico City right now with her precious handler and a team of agents.
“They’re in the basement,” he tells Sark. “Now what?”
Sark answers tonelessly. “The alarm system for Sloane’s floor is located twenty yards down on the north wall. The grey box with a yellow stripe. Deactivation code is 1-1-5-6-6.”
Kendall looks straight into his eyes, more like an angry bull than ever. “If this intel turns out to be wrong, I will personally escort you to Camp Harris, and I won’t leave until you’re dead and buried.”
“Then I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn’t changed the code,” he replies, his voice sardonic but his face blank.
Kendall keeps his eyes on him as he describes the location of the box to Sydney. Then, with one last glare, he leaves Sark, alone and desperately bored.
He steps slowly to the hard metal bench that will serve as his bed. He sinks down onto it and leans against the wall.
He knows he’s in for a long haul.
* * *
Two days pass, of monotonous, unending, excruciating boredom.
He is unable to sleep. Instead, he lies on the bench and stares at the permanent grey of the ceiling.
He wonders how Allison is faring. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if Irina had told Sydney her best friend was actually a genetic double.
Then he remembers his last meeting with Allison, and he shuts her out of his memory. For the time being.
Irina had used him again. Set him up to be captured to give away Sloane’s location to the CIA. All for Sydney. Irina’s love for her daughter will be her downfall one day, he thinks contemptuously.
Perhaps sooner.
Sark hears the rattling of the bars at the beginning of the corridor. Rather early for visitors, he thinks.
It isn’t his good friend Kendall.
It’s Jack Bristow.
So they did find him, he thinks. He wonders if this means that Sloane and the device were recovered.
Jack wears his usual poker face. But Sark feels an aura around him, one of pure exhaustion and weariness. He raises his head slightly to look at Jack, who is a few inches taller.
He remembers their last face-to-face meeting - the night he had exchanged Tippin for a Rambaldi page.
Tippin, Tippin. Why did everything come back to Tippin? He could honestly say that he wouldn’t mind giving the pathetic journalist another appointment with that dentist contact of his.
Jack just stares back, and begins - first, with hesitancy, but growing confidence. “The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A.” He pauses. “Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling.
“Derevko was also in the building. According to Agent Vaughn, she took down several of Sloane’s operatives before telling Sydney and Vaughn to follow Sloane. Vaughn went after him. Sydney went after Derevko.” Sark notes the reluctance to say Irina’s name. She did save you, you know.
“She escaped using one of the elevator shafts.”
Jack pauses again, and Sark senses he is coming to the crux of the matter.
“Will Tippin was working to discover the identity of the second double from Marcovic’s lab. After finding Provacillium in Sydney’s bathroom, he realized that the double might have been Francie Calfo, Sydney’s roommate.” Sark felt an odd sensation in his stomach. Allison.
What had happened to Allison?
“According to Tippin, he then was attacked by the double, whom we’ve identified as A.G. Doren. She stabbed him in the side and hid his body in the bathtub.
“We’ve come to some conclusions about what happened next. Agent Vaughn states he brought Sydney home and then left. Tippin had left a rushed message on Sydney’s cell phone, telling her that Ms. Calfo might be the double. We believe Sydney received it.
“Vaughn was scheduled for a debrief, after which he was going to drive back to Sydney’s. When he arrived, he found the remains of a colossal struggle between Sydney and the double. He also discovered Tippin, barely alive, and immediately called paramedics.
“The double was also brought in. There were three gunshot wounds to her arm and shoulders.
“And there was a gun. Lying on the floor, next to a broken mirror. It seems that the double smashed Sydney into the glass. There was a slash on the double’s cheek. Sydney had picked up a shard and thrust it at her cheek, and then shot her. Doren died several hours later.”
Sark’s throat tightens. Allison . . . He forces himself to stay calm.
“Why couldn’t you simply have gotten this information from Sydney?”
Sark saw Jack’s mask break for only an instant. “We couldn’t find her. She’s missing. We found her blood on the floor, her prints on the gun. We don’t know who could have gotten to her first, or why.” His stare clearly indicates his suspicion.
Sloane, Sark realizes.
Jack is watching him closely. When Sark doesn’t answer, he goes on. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you this. Your cooperation with us during Mexico City shows you may be a valuable asset. Kendall strongly feels you should be sent to Camp Harris. That doesn’t have to happen, if you tell us what we need to know. What is The Telling, and what is its purpose?”
Sark blinks.
Jack Bristow, he thinks, looking at him, is infinitely more intimidating than Kendall will ever be. Not that he has ever been intimidated.
“Keeping me out of Camp Harris doesn’t seem like a sufficient enough reward for intel of this magnitude. It’s practically inevitable that I’ll be sent there eventually.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Allison, his mind cries. Give me Allison back, and you can have whatever the hell you want.
He doesn’t say this. Instead he says, “It’s most likely that Arvin Sloane has your daughter. In addition to giving you information about Il Dire, my employer and I will give you our assistance in finding Sydney and Sloane. But only if I am officially released from U.S. custody.”
Jack’s stare grows even harder. After a moment, he says, “It’s not my decision to make. Director Kendall will make the final choice in a few hours. Then you’ll know.” He turns and leaves the cell.
Sark retreats back to his bed with one empty, hollowing thought in mind.
Allison . . .
* * *
He is roughly awakened later, and he knows that he has been ordered to Camp Harris. They lead him out to where their secure transfer vehicles are waiting.
He is not worried. If for some reason he is not intercepted by Irina, he knows of a thousand other ways he can escape.
It worked for Tippin.
Sure enough, after one half-hour has passed, he hears tires squealing, shots being fired. The van swerves and he is jerked back by the force.
He acts quickly, using his whole body as a weapon and managing to knock two guards senseless. Bullets are flying everywhere, crashing onto the windows and sides. He spots a gun in someone’s hands and grabs for it. He manages a few well placed shots while making his way to the door. There is the car . . .
Taking several more shots, he kicks open the door. Two men entirely in black seize him and he finds himself in the car. Only several more seconds pass before they take off at top speed.
* * *
MADRID
Hours later, a jet lands in Madrid.
Sark drives to a quiet, inconspicuous building near the edge of the city, pulling in the alleyway and entering from the side. He nods to the woman at the desk and walks quickly up the stairs. He stops at the seventh door and lifts up a small red fire alarm, which reveals a gel pad. He presses his right index finger into it, and after a few moments it turns green. He then enters the room.
She is rifling through a folder at her desk, but Sark has the feeling her mind is elsewhere.
She looks up and smiles at him, perhaps not genuinely, and gestures at a leather chair. He crosses over and sinks into it.
“How was your stay?”
“Only three days and I can’t recall ever being so bored in my entire life.”
Irina almost looks amused, but Sark can’t be. He’s too drained, too detached. She notices, and her mild humor fades.
“Tippin discovered our L.A. asset,” he says. “He managed to let Sydney know about her, which resulted in our asset’s death- Sydney killed her.”
He isn’t feeling anything. No sorrow, or pain, or regret. Just emptiness.
She knows he isn’t finished.
“Sydney’s missing.”
He watches her expression change rapidly from confusion to understanding to consternation. “Sloane.”
“Presumably.”
She sighs. “He *would* want to use it on her first. I should have foreseen that.”
“You were preoccupied. It’s understandable.”
“It’s not acceptable.”
He says nothing because privately he agrees with her.
“The CIA wanted to know about Il Dire.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them we would give them intel on it and our assistance in finding Sydney, and Sloane, if I was released. As you can see, they didn’t think much of my offer.”
Her face hardens. Sark looks at the patterned ceiling, avoiding her cold brown eyes. “If we were to recover Sydney first, and convince her that the CIA had a chance to save her and passed it up, then . . . her reluctance to work with us might be diminished.”
“Maybe.”
He speaks earnestly. “If she’s really, as you believe, the woman in that Prophecy- she’s the only one who can ultimately bring down Sloane. She’s an excellent agent; she would be invaluable to our operations. And she won’t be able to resist the thought that she could finally get Sloane.” He adds, “I assume he hasn’t contacted you in the last two days?”
Irina responds with a slight shake of her head. Sark looks back at the ceiling again. “And he must know my loyalties have shifted again,” he murmurs.
“He could’ve used Il Dire already,” she says.
“He might still be testing it.”
“How do you know he isn’t testing it on Sydney?”
“She means . . . too much to him to risk losing her.”
Irina looks disgusted, and sighs. “Do you know of any place Sloane could be right now?”
Sark is ready for this. “Do you recall . . . a few months back, when we used the nuclear device on Alia Gizabi, former wife of Ahmad Kabir. One of his associates, Elid Tehrzan, became interested in Sloane’s goals. I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse Sloane refuge if he needed it.”
“Where would that be?”
“Two miles north of Kandahar.” He gives her the coordinates. “I shouldn’t have any trouble getting in.”
“I’ll have a jet waiting, then. You’ll leave in an hour.”
He rises and enters a room behind the desk to prepare.
* * *
AFGHANISTAN
Tehrzan’s headquarters are located in one of the many caves of the Hindu Kush. Sark, equipped in his usual black, makes his way silently to the entrance- a nondescript gap between the rocks. He turns numerous corners until he finally sees a black box on the wall. Opening it, he presses five numbers, and a wall immediately slides back to reveal a much more elaborately designed steel hallway.
“I’ve reached the interior,” he says softly. “Now heading for the server room.”
“Copy that.”
He spots two guards at the end of the hallway about to turn his way. He swiftly picks up his gun and shoots twice. Right on target. Picking through one of their pockets, he discovers a key card.
He sets off at a light jog, remembering that the server room is the fourth room on the right in the second hallway. He’s glad his memory is photographic.
Sark doesn’t meet anyone else along the way, and immediately takes down the lone man at the security cameras. “I’m in. . . Looking for any sign of Sloane or Sydney . . .”
There. On the last screen. Sydney, strapped down to a chair . . . next to Il Dire. “I see Sydney. And the device.”
“Sloane?”
He looks closer. “He’s not in this room.” He whips his head over his shoulder, making sure no one’s come in. Then he spots a small figure pacing on another screen. “There. I see him.”
“Does Sydney’s room have a pass code? Can you get in?”
“I took a key card off a guard. It should be enough. Their system’s slightly out-of-date.”
“Copy.”
He takes off back down the hall. At the very end, he thrusts the key card into the handle. The door slides open.
He rushes in and sees Sydney- only she looks considerably different up close. Bruises are all over her forehead, and there are cuts everywhere.
Sark hesitates, then shakes her, gently, then harder. “Sydney . . . Sydney, get up . . . Sydney.”
Always prepared, he takes out a syringe of anti-anesthetic and inserts it into her skin.
After a few seconds, her eyelids flutter and struggle to open.
“Sydney, get up, we have to go.” He begins unstrapping her from the seat.
She groans.
“Sydney.”
She sees him, bent over her. “Sark?” Suddenly she becomes alert. “What the hell is going on? Where am I?”
“You’re in Afghanistan. Sloane’s here. He wants to use Il Dire on you, so he had you captured. Where is he now?”
Her breathing comes fast and hard. “You work for him.”
“I work for your mother, only her, and I never wanted to work with Sloane in the first place. Sydney, I need to know, where is he?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember anything”- Sark works on the last strap- “and the last thing I remember is shooting Francie.” Her voice is a low hiss now. “You killed my best friends, you son of a bitch. Why should I trust a word you say? How do I know YOU didn’t bring me here?”
“I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I’ve never given you a reason to. But now’s the time to start. Help me with the device. We have to go!”
“How did you escape?!”
“There’s no time, Sydney!” The last strap comes loose.
At that moment, an alarm sounds, shrill and pulsing. Sark seizes Sydney’s wrist and pulls her up. He reaches to his side and pulls out another gun, thrusts it at her and hopes that she won’t suddenly turn and pull the trigger on him.
Sark sees the guard in the doorway, but it is Sydney who shoots. The man falls to the ground.
“Follow me!” Sark calls to her, and they sprint down the hallway together, bullets flying everywhere, shooting and dodging, and barely make it through the door that closes behind them. They continue running down through the tunnels, and soon Sark sees the aircraft, barely brushing the earth below. He hears Sydney behind him, and as soon as he clambers in, he holds out his hand to help her. She ignores it and climbs up herself.
They stand, looking at each other.
Sark breaks the silence. “I would appreciate it if you gave me the gun. It won’t do you much good anyway, seeing as you’re out of ammunition.”
She almost throws the gun into his hand.
“Thank you.”
“What is going on?” she asks irritably. “How did you-” She seems at a loss for words.
Déjà vu, Sark thinks . . . just like when I showed up at SD-6. “I suggest you sit down, and we’ll talk.” He leads her into the interior of the plane. She takes a seat at the table, and he does the same.
“So the last thing you remember is-”
“Shooting someone who for three months I thought was my best friend, but turned out to be her genetic double.” She glares at him. “That you recruited.”
“I don’t deny it.” Sark, who has been feeling very much alive, suddenly feels cold again. “But I’m here to help you now, Sydney. We can help each other.”
She is still glaring at him. “How did you escape?”
His face takes on his usual smirk. “There are a thousand things wrong with your government’s ‘safe transport’ system that I could point out to you, Miss Bristow.”
Sydney looks as though she might be sick on the nicely tiled floor of the plane. Sark resists the urge to comment. Insults wouldn’t help him win her over. So he continues, “Sloane abducted you and brought you here for the purpose of using Il Dire on you. Obviously that would be disastrous. I had a suspicion that this is where he would go, so your mother arranged for me to fly here and extract you.”
Sydney breaks in. “Just what exactly *is* Il Dire- or the Telling?”
He looks away, not wanting to see the soon-to-be horrified expression on her face, and takes a deep breath. “It allows you to alter or relive the past. And Sloane . . . wants to use it on you. To alter your life back so that you were never recruited into SD-6, never became a spy . . . Back to when he and your father worked together, as allies.
“Il Dire won’t break apart after it’s been used, it must be voluntarily taken apart. Sloane and only Sloane will know what he’s altered, and changed. But Sydney, if you are truly the one in that Prophecy, you’re the only one who can stop him, and if he alters your life . . .”
“I don’t believe it,” she whispers. “I saw Mount Sebacio . . .”
It is silent for a full minute before Sark speaks again. “When I was in custody, I made the CIA an offer. We would assist them in the search for you, in addition to giving them information about Il Dire. They didn’t accept it. Instead, I was ordered to Camp Harris.
“Between what you do, and what I do, Sydney, there is no difference. Every organization has the same goals, strives for the same things . . . We have a common goal: to bring down Arvin Sloane. Sydney, if we work together- Sydney.”
She’s fighting back tears.
“I meant it when I said we were destined to work together.”
Sydney swallows, and some of her dignity returns. “If that’s really me . . . explain how-”
“You saw Mount Sebacio.” He begins to quote softly, “‘This woman will have had her effect, having never seen the beauty of my sky behind Mount Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance might quell her fire.’ Personally, Sydney, I believe you had your effect the moment you walked into the real CIA.”
It is silent again. Finally Sydney says, “I just- I need time. To think, and just- I just need time.”
Sark indicates the leather divan with a tilt of his head, and Sydney rises.
He reaches over, takes out his briefcase, and retrieves his laptop. He has work to do.
* * *
MADRID
“Madrid is nice this time of year,” comments Sydney, letting him know that she is under no illusions about where they are.
So is Santa Barbara, a smug voice says in his brain. Sark ignores it. Perhaps I should have blindfolded her after all, he thinks musingly, as the car rolls around to the side of the building. That would hardly build up her trust, though.
Irina smiles warmly at the two of them as they enter. “Hello, Sydney,” she says. She turns to Sark. “Did you get the device?”
I don’t get a “Hello, Sark.” I’m just a lowly agent who risked my life for her daughter. “Someone triggered the alarm. There was no time to take it.”
She looks away. Then she looks back at Sydney expectantly.
Sydney takes a shaky breath. “There are two possible scenarios here. The first one is that you’re telling me the truth, that you want to take down Sloane and you want me to help you. The second one is that this is all just a setup. You’re going to hand me over to Sloane as soon as you get the chance. I’m inclined to believe option one. But I need proof.”
Irina shifts her eyes back to Sark, whose hand is brushing along his left upper jaw line. Suddenly, they hear Jack’s voice. “The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A. Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling.”
It’s coming from Sark, but his mouth isn’t moving. Sydney stares at him. “The very, very newest in bug technology,” Irina says softly.
The entire conversation Sark had with Jack is replayed. When it ends, Sark touches his jaw line again. “I made them a deal,” he says. “They didn’t take it.”
“They- they must’ve thought it was a setup, too,” Sydney says, without much confidence.
Irina’s eyes are unusually bright as she looks at her. “Sydney- how can I convince you that this is not a deception?”
“You can’t.”
“If there was ever a time I needed you to trust me, it’s now.”
There is a long pause.
Sydney sighs. “I’ll do it. I’ll work with you. But . . . if I see even the slightest sign of possible betrayal, I will go straight back to the CIA.”
Irina beams at her. “There’s a room on the next floor. Third on the right side. You should get some sleep.”
Sydney slowly turns and leaves the room.
Making sure the door is securely shut, Sark turns back to Irina. “She still doesn’t trust us.”
“I know. We just have to watch her constantly.” As she says this, she switches on three tiny monitors on her desk.
“She’ll be looking for bugs and cameras, you know.”
“The entire ceiling is a camera.”
When Sydney walks in, Irina looks up at Sark. “The CIA’s still going to be searching for her.”
Sark nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Sark?” she calls to his retreating back, and he looks over his shoulder.
She says softly, “Doren’s alive.”
* * *
He can barely breathe, barely get out his next words. “How do you know . . . ?”
“One of our agents intercepted a transmission . . . Her transfer code name was ‘Hawk.’” She looks at him, eyes full of compassion. “She’s already been transferred to Camp Harris.”
“Surely we can do something . . .”
“We’ll discuss this when you return,” she says, a note of finality in her voice.
And Sark knows it’s useless to pursue the subject. He turns and walks away, trying to keep the lingering thought of Allison out of his mind as he makes plans.
CIA OPS CENTER
“Agent Vaughn.”
Vaughn spins around, coming face-to-face with Kendall. His face is even more serious than usual.
“You need to come with me.” He pauses. “We think we found something.”
Vaughn’s stomach lurches. Wordlessly, he stands up from his desk and follows Kendall into the briefing room.
When he arrives, he sees an assortment of all of Sydney’s friends- and one family member-Jack, Marshall, Dixon, Carrie - even Will- and a dozen other operatives.
No one says a word to him as he sits down next to Will.
“We received intel from a contact in southern Brazil. A hotel was burned down two days ago- the local authorities suspect arson. Among the deceased there was a young woman. She was severely burned, but her description matched that of Agent Sydney Bristow.”
Vaughn hears the sharp intake of breath from Will. He takes a short glance at him and sees that his expression is stricken.
He fights to keep down the pain welling up.
“We’re in the process of verifying the accuracy of this intel.” Kendall puts his hand down on the table, almost too hard, and surveys them all. “We’ll keep you posted,” he says. “You’re free to go.”
Jack is the first to leave. He is the only one who doesn’t have a shaken look on his or her face. Everyone else’s expression mirrors Will’s-including Vaughn’s.
No, his inner voice screams, no, she’s not dead, no, she just can’t be . . .
* * *
The next day, it’s been confirmed. Agent Sydney Bristow was killed in an arsonist fire.
The very next day, Agent Michael Vaughn turns in his resignation form to the CIA.
* * *
JAKARTA, INDONESIA
Sydney is reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, completely intent on ignoring the man next to her in the jet.
Sark watches her, his gaze unwavering. He reflects on how it’s the perfect title for Sydney’s current situation-she’s shelved her pride but hasn’t lost her prejudice for him, even though they are working toward a common cause. Still isn’t over the ‘assassin’ bit.
He sighs. Now would be a good time for him to explain-about Allison. He takes a deep breath and ventures to speak. “There are a few things that I’d like you to know about.”
Sydney looks up from her book and eyes him warily.
“It was not my suggestion to perform the genetic procedure on A.G. Doren; in fact, I argued against it. Sloane was the one who made the decision.”
Her expression holds contempt. “Obviously you didn’t argue hard enough.”
“You don’t think so?” he asks, his voice hard. “Believe me, Sydney, I tried everything to stop Allison’s- to stop Doren’s operation. But Sloane was set on it.” He stops, aware he might have gone too far.
But Sydney is looking almost triumphant. “You called her Allison.”
He bites his inner cheek. “You allow your fellow operatives to call you Sydney,” he says, rather defensively.
Now she seems thoughtful. At last she says, “‘ Sark’ can’t be your real name.”
She is met with a cool smirk. “Perhaps it is.”
“Do you even have a first name?”
“I prefer to keep my . . . origins . . . separate from my professional life, Miss Bristow.”
Her next words come out almost in a whisper. “How did you get involved in this life, anyway? This . . . this-world of . . . just . . .” She trails off. She’s now looking directly into his clear blue eyes. “There is so much I don’t know about you.”
He feels a strange sort of leap in his heart, and suddenly he is reminded of seeing Irina in one of her more . . . seductive moods . . . maybe . . . maybe there’s something more than just plain curiosity in those brown eyes . . . maybe that’s just what it is . . . they’re almost too close to each other . . .
Of course. She’s only trying to get some extra information out of him. He averts his gaze. “And I think we’ll keep it that way,” he says quietly.
Sark chances a glance back at her in a few minutes. She looks rather downcast.
Briskly, he changes the subject before she manages to change his mind. “We’re landing in ten minutes. We should reach the alleged ‘hide-out’ in an hour.”
Sydney nods in acknowledgement and immediately returns to her book.
Sark stands and strides over to the window, looking below them at the endless sea of clouds.
* * *
MADRID
24 Hours Earlier
“I’ve planted the evidence, it should be discovered within the next two days.”
Irina gives him a short, approving nod. Sark hesitates before changing the subject to the one he is most concerned about.
“Have you taken any action-regarding Doren?”
Irina sighs. “Since the escapes of you and Tippin, they’ve been reconfiguring their internal network. It’s made it much more difficult to access. All we know is that she’s alive and undergoing intense interrogations.”
He’d been expecting more. Now he feels something cold slam into his chest. “We have nothing.”
“Sark-” Irina starts, but falls silent. She begins again in a quieter tone. “As soon as we finish infiltrating the new network, I promise you . . . we will have something.”
Sark stares down at the well-polished wood of her desk.
Abruptly Irina takes out a slim folder and places it in front of him. “An asset in Jakarta sent communications to us, regarding Sloane’s whereabouts. It’s believed he’s taken refuge under a member of the Mahala Kej, a small organization of revolutionaries. I’m sending in you and Sydney, along with a separate team. You’ll find the details of the mission here.”
“When do we leave?”
“Two hours. Op tech has already been prepared.”
Sark rises, picks up the folder, and exits the office.
* * *
He turns back around to face Sydney.
He chooses his words carefully. “I don’t think it will be difficult for you to remember the-incident in Mexico City at the Vatican Embassy.”
Sydney does not look up, but continues to stare down at the page.
“Your CIA picked up a transmission with several key words . . . terrorist attack . . . weapons of mass destruction . . . Rambaldi. Didn’t you wonder where it was sent from, why someone would use those key words in an actual conversation?”
“I was too busy wondering what type of . . . person would choose to incinerate sixty-two innocent people for the sake of killing one.” There is cold fury on her face.
“I sent that transmission.” He pauses. “My job compels me to perform some unpleasant tasks, but it’s not as though my conscience has completely eroded.”
“And here I was with the impression that you’d been born without one.” Before he can reply, she goes on, “It’s like I told you before. We have nothing in common. We are not friends. And we will never become friends.”
“But we’re allies, now, Miss Bristow.” She doesn’t reply.
“Which means that for now, we have to trust each other.”
* * *
JAKARTA
A quiet, inconspicuous car pulls up next to a small building, tucked deep into the city of Jakarta.
A tall figure steps out: Sydney Bristow, dressed in a tight black dress and sporting a short black hairstyle.
Sark, from the car, watches her enter the club. He turns on his comm, and hears the click of Sydney’s.
“I’m in,” comes her voice.
“I can see that,” he replies dryly.
“Remind me again why the Mahala Kej chose a nightclub as their Jakarta front.”
“It’s not exactly suspect, is it?”
She doesn’t reply. She is scanning the crowd for a certain means to access the lower level. Sark smiles to himself, thinking of the unfortunate individual of Sydney’s choice.
A few minutes later, Sydney’s voice comes back over the comm, only this time in Malay, which Sark does not understand a word of. A man answers her. She answers back in a smooth, silky tone, before switching to Taiwanese.
He has to admit, she is a wonder with languages.
A couple more minutes pass, before Sydney and her companion move on, presumably to find a more private location.
A few more seconds and Sark hears a grunt and the sounds of someone falling. “Man down,” comes Sydney’s voice. “And . . . I’ve secured us a key card. Now heading to the server room.”
“Copy that,” replies Sark, opening his laptop.
He forces his mind not to drift off, not to think of anything but the mission.
Nothing else.
* * *
STARA ZAGORA, BULGARIA
The sun has just begun to set.
Irina waits in silence. She gazes across the park at a little girl, going down the slide. A woman holds her hand and guides her all the way down.
Irina turns to watch the sunset.
She senses a presence sitting beside her on the bench and does not need to turn to know who it is. “I’m glad you contacted me.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“It was an ingenious way of contacting me.” She closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to face him.
Jack gazes at her, impassive as ever. “I suppose it’s . . . probably obvious to you why I’m meeting with you.”
Barely audible, she whispers, “Sydney.”
“The CIA’s given up. They found a body. The DNA match was-only 80%. Which means there is a [i]chance[/i], however small, that she may still be alive.” Jack looks down, then raises his eyes to look at her again. “And if she isn’t . . . I want to know what happened to her.”
They both watch the little girl, going down the slide again.
* * *
JAKARTA
“I’ve hacked the system; you should be receiving the surveillance feed in the next five seconds.”
Sark watches the screen, and eighteen different images pop up. He scans them quickly and frowns slightly. “I don’t see him.”
“Neither do I.” He hears her take a shaky breath.
“Sydney, you need to get out of there. It must be a decoy, a setup-the intel was false.”
“Copy.” The frustration in her tone comes across clearly.
Suddenly the tiny screens change to static. Sark presses several of the keys, but the static doesn’t disappear. “Sydney.”
No response. He hears the beginnings of a struggle before the comm clicks off.
Discarding his laptop, he exits the car. With a practiced eye, he surveys his surroundings before taking off for the front door.
Sydney could not be lost.
* * *
STARA ZAGORA
“I have no way of knowing whether you’re really willing to work with me.” Her gaze penetrates. “Or if this is a setup.”
Jack holds her stare. “No. You don’t.”
* * *
JAKARTA
Sark quickly makes his way around the club. He is well aware that he does not blend well here.
He spots the door.
It looks ajar when he reaches it. He looks down. Caught between the frame and the door is a small, jeweled bracelet. Sydney’s.
He notes wryly that Sydney’s aim has improved considerably since she joined with them.
The hallways appear deserted. Not a good sign.
He catches the tiniest flicker of movement, and leans back against the wall.
Target. He takes a single shot, and he doesn’t miss.
He takes a chance and begins to walk out again, only to fire two more shots at coming guards. Sark waits several more seconds.
No one.
Corners . . . walls . . . corridors . . .
Sark turns another corner and sees two men down . . . and two more. And carrying an unconscious Sydney.
He squeezes the trigger. Twice.
He hurries to Sydney and puts his hand under her head, pushing it up. Sydney’s eyes flutter.
“Come on, Sydney.” She makes a valiant effort to sit up straight, but falls back.
Seeing she isn’t able to move, Sark lifts her up, puts her over his shoulder, and begins walking as quickly as he can to the front of the club. He spots the door in a few seconds later.
Suddenly Sydney grabs his gun, extends her arm over his shoulder, and shoots. Three times.
She collapses back onto him, and he hears the gun clatter to the floor.
Sark chances a look back while retrieving his gun, and sees one more man lying on the ground, a few yards away.
He pushes open the door and is instantly confronted with the loud, dull, sounds of the music. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, considering he is carrying a grown woman, Sark moves towards the exit.
A couple of people stare curiously, but Sark knows they all must think Sydney’s passed out.
With an inward sigh of relief, he sees that the car is still parked outside.
He lets Sydney down on the seat gently, and climbs in, slamming the door.
The car takes off.
* * *
“Sydney’s safe. That much I can tell you. But there’s something I need for you to do before you can see her.”
* * *
Sydney is awake, staring down at her hands in her lap, slumped against the seat.
Sark silently watches her.
What a life she’s had . . . double agent . . . lies . . . betrayal . . . learning the truth about her mother . . . and her father . . .
And yet she still tries. Tries to deal with it all, to live as normally as possible, always striving to make things right.
Her eyes travel up, slowly, finally meeting his own. She slightly raises her head.
His lips touch hers first, hers hesitating for less than an instant before pulling herself toward him, with all-consuming force.
He loves her for it.
* * *
“I need you to see to the escape of Allison Doren.”
It is silent for a long, long moment.
“Consider it done.”
Rating: PG to PG-13
Summary: A multi-chapter Sarkney fic, starting with Sark's capture in The Telling and continuing on as an AU. Sark and Sydney form an uneasy partnership under the control of Irina Derevko.
Distribution: Just ask.
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias.
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
Sark makes his way through the crowded club. He has business here, but of a more casual type, and his clothing reflects this- blue shirt, grey jacket and jeans.
He spots Ferguson sitting alone in the middle of the room, waiting. He strides over, and Ferguson rises to meet him. They shake hands. “Mr. Williams, correct?”
Sark nods. “And Mr. Ferguson.” They take seats. Ferguson begins.
“So I understand you represent Veller and Michaels, Inc.”
“Also correct. The head of our branch is interested in expanding its land-”
“Freeze!”
“Freeze!”
Sark barely has time to glimpse the face of Michael Vaughn before his head is slammed into the glass table. He is jerked back up, and sees the CIA agent pointing his gun at him.
“See,” he snarls. “When I have a gun trained on you, I don’t just pull the trigger.”
Sark senses his nose bleeding. His head is throbbing. And Michael Vaughn is the last person he wants to see right now- apart from a blonde Sydney Bristow, standing next to Vaughn and pointing her gun at a bewildered Ferguson. “Thank you,” Sark gasps out.
He hadn’t meant to sound so- slam.
“You’re welcome,” Vaughn returns. Sark’s head throbs harder.
“Where the hell is my father?” Sydney asks, her voice sharp.
Act desperate, Sark tells himself, but not too desperate. Only what they need to know.
“Not a problem,” he says, breathing heavily. “My loyalties are flexible. Sloane . . . and your father . . . are in Mexico City.”
He sees Vaughn and Sydney exchange glances, no doubt wondering why he gave up so easily. Well, they’d understand soon enough.
He is slightly disappointed. He would have liked to have made that deal.
* * *
LOS ANGELES
The CIA takes him.
They place him in a maximum security cell.
Sark is almost certain that it is the one Irina inhabited for so long.
He has only been there an hour and he doesn’t understand how she stood it.
A big, bald-headed man is questioning him and speaking into his headset. Director Kendall, he was arrogantly informed. He’s just like a bull, Sark thinks amusedly. His face remains impassive.
Kendall is speaking to Sydney, field name Mountaineer, who is in Mexico City right now with her precious handler and a team of agents.
“They’re in the basement,” he tells Sark. “Now what?”
Sark answers tonelessly. “The alarm system for Sloane’s floor is located twenty yards down on the north wall. The grey box with a yellow stripe. Deactivation code is 1-1-5-6-6.”
Kendall looks straight into his eyes, more like an angry bull than ever. “If this intel turns out to be wrong, I will personally escort you to Camp Harris, and I won’t leave until you’re dead and buried.”
“Then I certainly hope Mr. Sloane hasn’t changed the code,” he replies, his voice sardonic but his face blank.
Kendall keeps his eyes on him as he describes the location of the box to Sydney. Then, with one last glare, he leaves Sark, alone and desperately bored.
He steps slowly to the hard metal bench that will serve as his bed. He sinks down onto it and leans against the wall.
He knows he’s in for a long haul.
* * *
Two days pass, of monotonous, unending, excruciating boredom.
He is unable to sleep. Instead, he lies on the bench and stares at the permanent grey of the ceiling.
He wonders how Allison is faring. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if Irina had told Sydney her best friend was actually a genetic double.
Then he remembers his last meeting with Allison, and he shuts her out of his memory. For the time being.
Irina had used him again. Set him up to be captured to give away Sloane’s location to the CIA. All for Sydney. Irina’s love for her daughter will be her downfall one day, he thinks contemptuously.
Perhaps sooner.
Sark hears the rattling of the bars at the beginning of the corridor. Rather early for visitors, he thinks.
It isn’t his good friend Kendall.
It’s Jack Bristow.
So they did find him, he thinks. He wonders if this means that Sloane and the device were recovered.
Jack wears his usual poker face. But Sark feels an aura around him, one of pure exhaustion and weariness. He raises his head slightly to look at Jack, who is a few inches taller.
He remembers their last face-to-face meeting - the night he had exchanged Tippin for a Rambaldi page.
Tippin, Tippin. Why did everything come back to Tippin? He could honestly say that he wouldn’t mind giving the pathetic journalist another appointment with that dentist contact of his.
Jack just stares back, and begins - first, with hesitancy, but growing confidence. “The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A.” He pauses. “Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling.
“Derevko was also in the building. According to Agent Vaughn, she took down several of Sloane’s operatives before telling Sydney and Vaughn to follow Sloane. Vaughn went after him. Sydney went after Derevko.” Sark notes the reluctance to say Irina’s name. She did save you, you know.
“She escaped using one of the elevator shafts.”
Jack pauses again, and Sark senses he is coming to the crux of the matter.
“Will Tippin was working to discover the identity of the second double from Marcovic’s lab. After finding Provacillium in Sydney’s bathroom, he realized that the double might have been Francie Calfo, Sydney’s roommate.” Sark felt an odd sensation in his stomach. Allison.
What had happened to Allison?
“According to Tippin, he then was attacked by the double, whom we’ve identified as A.G. Doren. She stabbed him in the side and hid his body in the bathtub.
“We’ve come to some conclusions about what happened next. Agent Vaughn states he brought Sydney home and then left. Tippin had left a rushed message on Sydney’s cell phone, telling her that Ms. Calfo might be the double. We believe Sydney received it.
“Vaughn was scheduled for a debrief, after which he was going to drive back to Sydney’s. When he arrived, he found the remains of a colossal struggle between Sydney and the double. He also discovered Tippin, barely alive, and immediately called paramedics.
“The double was also brought in. There were three gunshot wounds to her arm and shoulders.
“And there was a gun. Lying on the floor, next to a broken mirror. It seems that the double smashed Sydney into the glass. There was a slash on the double’s cheek. Sydney had picked up a shard and thrust it at her cheek, and then shot her. Doren died several hours later.”
Sark’s throat tightens. Allison . . . He forces himself to stay calm.
“Why couldn’t you simply have gotten this information from Sydney?”
Sark saw Jack’s mask break for only an instant. “We couldn’t find her. She’s missing. We found her blood on the floor, her prints on the gun. We don’t know who could have gotten to her first, or why.” His stare clearly indicates his suspicion.
Sloane, Sark realizes.
Jack is watching him closely. When Sark doesn’t answer, he goes on. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you this. Your cooperation with us during Mexico City shows you may be a valuable asset. Kendall strongly feels you should be sent to Camp Harris. That doesn’t have to happen, if you tell us what we need to know. What is The Telling, and what is its purpose?”
Sark blinks.
Jack Bristow, he thinks, looking at him, is infinitely more intimidating than Kendall will ever be. Not that he has ever been intimidated.
“Keeping me out of Camp Harris doesn’t seem like a sufficient enough reward for intel of this magnitude. It’s practically inevitable that I’ll be sent there eventually.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Allison, his mind cries. Give me Allison back, and you can have whatever the hell you want.
He doesn’t say this. Instead he says, “It’s most likely that Arvin Sloane has your daughter. In addition to giving you information about Il Dire, my employer and I will give you our assistance in finding Sydney and Sloane. But only if I am officially released from U.S. custody.”
Jack’s stare grows even harder. After a moment, he says, “It’s not my decision to make. Director Kendall will make the final choice in a few hours. Then you’ll know.” He turns and leaves the cell.
Sark retreats back to his bed with one empty, hollowing thought in mind.
Allison . . .
* * *
He is roughly awakened later, and he knows that he has been ordered to Camp Harris. They lead him out to where their secure transfer vehicles are waiting.
He is not worried. If for some reason he is not intercepted by Irina, he knows of a thousand other ways he can escape.
It worked for Tippin.
Sure enough, after one half-hour has passed, he hears tires squealing, shots being fired. The van swerves and he is jerked back by the force.
He acts quickly, using his whole body as a weapon and managing to knock two guards senseless. Bullets are flying everywhere, crashing onto the windows and sides. He spots a gun in someone’s hands and grabs for it. He manages a few well placed shots while making his way to the door. There is the car . . .
Taking several more shots, he kicks open the door. Two men entirely in black seize him and he finds himself in the car. Only several more seconds pass before they take off at top speed.
* * *
MADRID
Hours later, a jet lands in Madrid.
Sark drives to a quiet, inconspicuous building near the edge of the city, pulling in the alleyway and entering from the side. He nods to the woman at the desk and walks quickly up the stairs. He stops at the seventh door and lifts up a small red fire alarm, which reveals a gel pad. He presses his right index finger into it, and after a few moments it turns green. He then enters the room.
She is rifling through a folder at her desk, but Sark has the feeling her mind is elsewhere.
She looks up and smiles at him, perhaps not genuinely, and gestures at a leather chair. He crosses over and sinks into it.
“How was your stay?”
“Only three days and I can’t recall ever being so bored in my entire life.”
Irina almost looks amused, but Sark can’t be. He’s too drained, too detached. She notices, and her mild humor fades.
“Tippin discovered our L.A. asset,” he says. “He managed to let Sydney know about her, which resulted in our asset’s death- Sydney killed her.”
He isn’t feeling anything. No sorrow, or pain, or regret. Just emptiness.
She knows he isn’t finished.
“Sydney’s missing.”
He watches her expression change rapidly from confusion to understanding to consternation. “Sloane.”
“Presumably.”
She sighs. “He *would* want to use it on her first. I should have foreseen that.”
“You were preoccupied. It’s understandable.”
“It’s not acceptable.”
He says nothing because privately he agrees with her.
“The CIA wanted to know about Il Dire.”
“What did you say?”
“I told them we would give them intel on it and our assistance in finding Sydney, and Sloane, if I was released. As you can see, they didn’t think much of my offer.”
Her face hardens. Sark looks at the patterned ceiling, avoiding her cold brown eyes. “If we were to recover Sydney first, and convince her that the CIA had a chance to save her and passed it up, then . . . her reluctance to work with us might be diminished.”
“Maybe.”
He speaks earnestly. “If she’s really, as you believe, the woman in that Prophecy- she’s the only one who can ultimately bring down Sloane. She’s an excellent agent; she would be invaluable to our operations. And she won’t be able to resist the thought that she could finally get Sloane.” He adds, “I assume he hasn’t contacted you in the last two days?”
Irina responds with a slight shake of her head. Sark looks back at the ceiling again. “And he must know my loyalties have shifted again,” he murmurs.
“He could’ve used Il Dire already,” she says.
“He might still be testing it.”
“How do you know he isn’t testing it on Sydney?”
“She means . . . too much to him to risk losing her.”
Irina looks disgusted, and sighs. “Do you know of any place Sloane could be right now?”
Sark is ready for this. “Do you recall . . . a few months back, when we used the nuclear device on Alia Gizabi, former wife of Ahmad Kabir. One of his associates, Elid Tehrzan, became interested in Sloane’s goals. I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse Sloane refuge if he needed it.”
“Where would that be?”
“Two miles north of Kandahar.” He gives her the coordinates. “I shouldn’t have any trouble getting in.”
“I’ll have a jet waiting, then. You’ll leave in an hour.”
He rises and enters a room behind the desk to prepare.
* * *
AFGHANISTAN
Tehrzan’s headquarters are located in one of the many caves of the Hindu Kush. Sark, equipped in his usual black, makes his way silently to the entrance- a nondescript gap between the rocks. He turns numerous corners until he finally sees a black box on the wall. Opening it, he presses five numbers, and a wall immediately slides back to reveal a much more elaborately designed steel hallway.
“I’ve reached the interior,” he says softly. “Now heading for the server room.”
“Copy that.”
He spots two guards at the end of the hallway about to turn his way. He swiftly picks up his gun and shoots twice. Right on target. Picking through one of their pockets, he discovers a key card.
He sets off at a light jog, remembering that the server room is the fourth room on the right in the second hallway. He’s glad his memory is photographic.
Sark doesn’t meet anyone else along the way, and immediately takes down the lone man at the security cameras. “I’m in. . . Looking for any sign of Sloane or Sydney . . .”
There. On the last screen. Sydney, strapped down to a chair . . . next to Il Dire. “I see Sydney. And the device.”
“Sloane?”
He looks closer. “He’s not in this room.” He whips his head over his shoulder, making sure no one’s come in. Then he spots a small figure pacing on another screen. “There. I see him.”
“Does Sydney’s room have a pass code? Can you get in?”
“I took a key card off a guard. It should be enough. Their system’s slightly out-of-date.”
“Copy.”
He takes off back down the hall. At the very end, he thrusts the key card into the handle. The door slides open.
He rushes in and sees Sydney- only she looks considerably different up close. Bruises are all over her forehead, and there are cuts everywhere.
Sark hesitates, then shakes her, gently, then harder. “Sydney . . . Sydney, get up . . . Sydney.”
Always prepared, he takes out a syringe of anti-anesthetic and inserts it into her skin.
After a few seconds, her eyelids flutter and struggle to open.
“Sydney, get up, we have to go.” He begins unstrapping her from the seat.
She groans.
“Sydney.”
She sees him, bent over her. “Sark?” Suddenly she becomes alert. “What the hell is going on? Where am I?”
“You’re in Afghanistan. Sloane’s here. He wants to use Il Dire on you, so he had you captured. Where is he now?”
Her breathing comes fast and hard. “You work for him.”
“I work for your mother, only her, and I never wanted to work with Sloane in the first place. Sydney, I need to know, where is he?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember anything”- Sark works on the last strap- “and the last thing I remember is shooting Francie.” Her voice is a low hiss now. “You killed my best friends, you son of a bitch. Why should I trust a word you say? How do I know YOU didn’t bring me here?”
“I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I’ve never given you a reason to. But now’s the time to start. Help me with the device. We have to go!”
“How did you escape?!”
“There’s no time, Sydney!” The last strap comes loose.
At that moment, an alarm sounds, shrill and pulsing. Sark seizes Sydney’s wrist and pulls her up. He reaches to his side and pulls out another gun, thrusts it at her and hopes that she won’t suddenly turn and pull the trigger on him.
Sark sees the guard in the doorway, but it is Sydney who shoots. The man falls to the ground.
“Follow me!” Sark calls to her, and they sprint down the hallway together, bullets flying everywhere, shooting and dodging, and barely make it through the door that closes behind them. They continue running down through the tunnels, and soon Sark sees the aircraft, barely brushing the earth below. He hears Sydney behind him, and as soon as he clambers in, he holds out his hand to help her. She ignores it and climbs up herself.
They stand, looking at each other.
Sark breaks the silence. “I would appreciate it if you gave me the gun. It won’t do you much good anyway, seeing as you’re out of ammunition.”
She almost throws the gun into his hand.
“Thank you.”
“What is going on?” she asks irritably. “How did you-” She seems at a loss for words.
Déjà vu, Sark thinks . . . just like when I showed up at SD-6. “I suggest you sit down, and we’ll talk.” He leads her into the interior of the plane. She takes a seat at the table, and he does the same.
“So the last thing you remember is-”
“Shooting someone who for three months I thought was my best friend, but turned out to be her genetic double.” She glares at him. “That you recruited.”
“I don’t deny it.” Sark, who has been feeling very much alive, suddenly feels cold again. “But I’m here to help you now, Sydney. We can help each other.”
She is still glaring at him. “How did you escape?”
His face takes on his usual smirk. “There are a thousand things wrong with your government’s ‘safe transport’ system that I could point out to you, Miss Bristow.”
Sydney looks as though she might be sick on the nicely tiled floor of the plane. Sark resists the urge to comment. Insults wouldn’t help him win her over. So he continues, “Sloane abducted you and brought you here for the purpose of using Il Dire on you. Obviously that would be disastrous. I had a suspicion that this is where he would go, so your mother arranged for me to fly here and extract you.”
Sydney breaks in. “Just what exactly *is* Il Dire- or the Telling?”
He looks away, not wanting to see the soon-to-be horrified expression on her face, and takes a deep breath. “It allows you to alter or relive the past. And Sloane . . . wants to use it on you. To alter your life back so that you were never recruited into SD-6, never became a spy . . . Back to when he and your father worked together, as allies.
“Il Dire won’t break apart after it’s been used, it must be voluntarily taken apart. Sloane and only Sloane will know what he’s altered, and changed. But Sydney, if you are truly the one in that Prophecy, you’re the only one who can stop him, and if he alters your life . . .”
“I don’t believe it,” she whispers. “I saw Mount Sebacio . . .”
It is silent for a full minute before Sark speaks again. “When I was in custody, I made the CIA an offer. We would assist them in the search for you, in addition to giving them information about Il Dire. They didn’t accept it. Instead, I was ordered to Camp Harris.
“Between what you do, and what I do, Sydney, there is no difference. Every organization has the same goals, strives for the same things . . . We have a common goal: to bring down Arvin Sloane. Sydney, if we work together- Sydney.”
She’s fighting back tears.
“I meant it when I said we were destined to work together.”
Sydney swallows, and some of her dignity returns. “If that’s really me . . . explain how-”
“You saw Mount Sebacio.” He begins to quote softly, “‘This woman will have had her effect, having never seen the beauty of my sky behind Mount Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance might quell her fire.’ Personally, Sydney, I believe you had your effect the moment you walked into the real CIA.”
It is silent again. Finally Sydney says, “I just- I need time. To think, and just- I just need time.”
Sark indicates the leather divan with a tilt of his head, and Sydney rises.
He reaches over, takes out his briefcase, and retrieves his laptop. He has work to do.
* * *
MADRID
“Madrid is nice this time of year,” comments Sydney, letting him know that she is under no illusions about where they are.
So is Santa Barbara, a smug voice says in his brain. Sark ignores it. Perhaps I should have blindfolded her after all, he thinks musingly, as the car rolls around to the side of the building. That would hardly build up her trust, though.
Irina smiles warmly at the two of them as they enter. “Hello, Sydney,” she says. She turns to Sark. “Did you get the device?”
I don’t get a “Hello, Sark.” I’m just a lowly agent who risked my life for her daughter. “Someone triggered the alarm. There was no time to take it.”
She looks away. Then she looks back at Sydney expectantly.
Sydney takes a shaky breath. “There are two possible scenarios here. The first one is that you’re telling me the truth, that you want to take down Sloane and you want me to help you. The second one is that this is all just a setup. You’re going to hand me over to Sloane as soon as you get the chance. I’m inclined to believe option one. But I need proof.”
Irina shifts her eyes back to Sark, whose hand is brushing along his left upper jaw line. Suddenly, they hear Jack’s voice. “The CIA team invaded the building in Mexico City. I was recovered and brought back to L.A. Sloane escaped, along with the device. The Telling.”
It’s coming from Sark, but his mouth isn’t moving. Sydney stares at him. “The very, very newest in bug technology,” Irina says softly.
The entire conversation Sark had with Jack is replayed. When it ends, Sark touches his jaw line again. “I made them a deal,” he says. “They didn’t take it.”
“They- they must’ve thought it was a setup, too,” Sydney says, without much confidence.
Irina’s eyes are unusually bright as she looks at her. “Sydney- how can I convince you that this is not a deception?”
“You can’t.”
“If there was ever a time I needed you to trust me, it’s now.”
There is a long pause.
Sydney sighs. “I’ll do it. I’ll work with you. But . . . if I see even the slightest sign of possible betrayal, I will go straight back to the CIA.”
Irina beams at her. “There’s a room on the next floor. Third on the right side. You should get some sleep.”
Sydney slowly turns and leaves the room.
Making sure the door is securely shut, Sark turns back to Irina. “She still doesn’t trust us.”
“I know. We just have to watch her constantly.” As she says this, she switches on three tiny monitors on her desk.
“She’ll be looking for bugs and cameras, you know.”
“The entire ceiling is a camera.”
When Sydney walks in, Irina looks up at Sark. “The CIA’s still going to be searching for her.”
Sark nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Sark?” she calls to his retreating back, and he looks over his shoulder.
She says softly, “Doren’s alive.”
* * *
He can barely breathe, barely get out his next words. “How do you know . . . ?”
“One of our agents intercepted a transmission . . . Her transfer code name was ‘Hawk.’” She looks at him, eyes full of compassion. “She’s already been transferred to Camp Harris.”
“Surely we can do something . . .”
“We’ll discuss this when you return,” she says, a note of finality in her voice.
And Sark knows it’s useless to pursue the subject. He turns and walks away, trying to keep the lingering thought of Allison out of his mind as he makes plans.
CIA OPS CENTER
“Agent Vaughn.”
Vaughn spins around, coming face-to-face with Kendall. His face is even more serious than usual.
“You need to come with me.” He pauses. “We think we found something.”
Vaughn’s stomach lurches. Wordlessly, he stands up from his desk and follows Kendall into the briefing room.
When he arrives, he sees an assortment of all of Sydney’s friends- and one family member-Jack, Marshall, Dixon, Carrie - even Will- and a dozen other operatives.
No one says a word to him as he sits down next to Will.
“We received intel from a contact in southern Brazil. A hotel was burned down two days ago- the local authorities suspect arson. Among the deceased there was a young woman. She was severely burned, but her description matched that of Agent Sydney Bristow.”
Vaughn hears the sharp intake of breath from Will. He takes a short glance at him and sees that his expression is stricken.
He fights to keep down the pain welling up.
“We’re in the process of verifying the accuracy of this intel.” Kendall puts his hand down on the table, almost too hard, and surveys them all. “We’ll keep you posted,” he says. “You’re free to go.”
Jack is the first to leave. He is the only one who doesn’t have a shaken look on his or her face. Everyone else’s expression mirrors Will’s-including Vaughn’s.
No, his inner voice screams, no, she’s not dead, no, she just can’t be . . .
* * *
The next day, it’s been confirmed. Agent Sydney Bristow was killed in an arsonist fire.
The very next day, Agent Michael Vaughn turns in his resignation form to the CIA.
* * *
JAKARTA, INDONESIA
Sydney is reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, completely intent on ignoring the man next to her in the jet.
Sark watches her, his gaze unwavering. He reflects on how it’s the perfect title for Sydney’s current situation-she’s shelved her pride but hasn’t lost her prejudice for him, even though they are working toward a common cause. Still isn’t over the ‘assassin’ bit.
He sighs. Now would be a good time for him to explain-about Allison. He takes a deep breath and ventures to speak. “There are a few things that I’d like you to know about.”
Sydney looks up from her book and eyes him warily.
“It was not my suggestion to perform the genetic procedure on A.G. Doren; in fact, I argued against it. Sloane was the one who made the decision.”
Her expression holds contempt. “Obviously you didn’t argue hard enough.”
“You don’t think so?” he asks, his voice hard. “Believe me, Sydney, I tried everything to stop Allison’s- to stop Doren’s operation. But Sloane was set on it.” He stops, aware he might have gone too far.
But Sydney is looking almost triumphant. “You called her Allison.”
He bites his inner cheek. “You allow your fellow operatives to call you Sydney,” he says, rather defensively.
Now she seems thoughtful. At last she says, “‘ Sark’ can’t be your real name.”
She is met with a cool smirk. “Perhaps it is.”
“Do you even have a first name?”
“I prefer to keep my . . . origins . . . separate from my professional life, Miss Bristow.”
Her next words come out almost in a whisper. “How did you get involved in this life, anyway? This . . . this-world of . . . just . . .” She trails off. She’s now looking directly into his clear blue eyes. “There is so much I don’t know about you.”
He feels a strange sort of leap in his heart, and suddenly he is reminded of seeing Irina in one of her more . . . seductive moods . . . maybe . . . maybe there’s something more than just plain curiosity in those brown eyes . . . maybe that’s just what it is . . . they’re almost too close to each other . . .
Of course. She’s only trying to get some extra information out of him. He averts his gaze. “And I think we’ll keep it that way,” he says quietly.
Sark chances a glance back at her in a few minutes. She looks rather downcast.
Briskly, he changes the subject before she manages to change his mind. “We’re landing in ten minutes. We should reach the alleged ‘hide-out’ in an hour.”
Sydney nods in acknowledgement and immediately returns to her book.
Sark stands and strides over to the window, looking below them at the endless sea of clouds.
* * *
MADRID
24 Hours Earlier
“I’ve planted the evidence, it should be discovered within the next two days.”
Irina gives him a short, approving nod. Sark hesitates before changing the subject to the one he is most concerned about.
“Have you taken any action-regarding Doren?”
Irina sighs. “Since the escapes of you and Tippin, they’ve been reconfiguring their internal network. It’s made it much more difficult to access. All we know is that she’s alive and undergoing intense interrogations.”
He’d been expecting more. Now he feels something cold slam into his chest. “We have nothing.”
“Sark-” Irina starts, but falls silent. She begins again in a quieter tone. “As soon as we finish infiltrating the new network, I promise you . . . we will have something.”
Sark stares down at the well-polished wood of her desk.
Abruptly Irina takes out a slim folder and places it in front of him. “An asset in Jakarta sent communications to us, regarding Sloane’s whereabouts. It’s believed he’s taken refuge under a member of the Mahala Kej, a small organization of revolutionaries. I’m sending in you and Sydney, along with a separate team. You’ll find the details of the mission here.”
“When do we leave?”
“Two hours. Op tech has already been prepared.”
Sark rises, picks up the folder, and exits the office.
* * *
He turns back around to face Sydney.
He chooses his words carefully. “I don’t think it will be difficult for you to remember the-incident in Mexico City at the Vatican Embassy.”
Sydney does not look up, but continues to stare down at the page.
“Your CIA picked up a transmission with several key words . . . terrorist attack . . . weapons of mass destruction . . . Rambaldi. Didn’t you wonder where it was sent from, why someone would use those key words in an actual conversation?”
“I was too busy wondering what type of . . . person would choose to incinerate sixty-two innocent people for the sake of killing one.” There is cold fury on her face.
“I sent that transmission.” He pauses. “My job compels me to perform some unpleasant tasks, but it’s not as though my conscience has completely eroded.”
“And here I was with the impression that you’d been born without one.” Before he can reply, she goes on, “It’s like I told you before. We have nothing in common. We are not friends. And we will never become friends.”
“But we’re allies, now, Miss Bristow.” She doesn’t reply.
“Which means that for now, we have to trust each other.”
* * *
JAKARTA
A quiet, inconspicuous car pulls up next to a small building, tucked deep into the city of Jakarta.
A tall figure steps out: Sydney Bristow, dressed in a tight black dress and sporting a short black hairstyle.
Sark, from the car, watches her enter the club. He turns on his comm, and hears the click of Sydney’s.
“I’m in,” comes her voice.
“I can see that,” he replies dryly.
“Remind me again why the Mahala Kej chose a nightclub as their Jakarta front.”
“It’s not exactly suspect, is it?”
She doesn’t reply. She is scanning the crowd for a certain means to access the lower level. Sark smiles to himself, thinking of the unfortunate individual of Sydney’s choice.
A few minutes later, Sydney’s voice comes back over the comm, only this time in Malay, which Sark does not understand a word of. A man answers her. She answers back in a smooth, silky tone, before switching to Taiwanese.
He has to admit, she is a wonder with languages.
A couple more minutes pass, before Sydney and her companion move on, presumably to find a more private location.
A few more seconds and Sark hears a grunt and the sounds of someone falling. “Man down,” comes Sydney’s voice. “And . . . I’ve secured us a key card. Now heading to the server room.”
“Copy that,” replies Sark, opening his laptop.
He forces his mind not to drift off, not to think of anything but the mission.
Nothing else.
* * *
STARA ZAGORA, BULGARIA
The sun has just begun to set.
Irina waits in silence. She gazes across the park at a little girl, going down the slide. A woman holds her hand and guides her all the way down.
Irina turns to watch the sunset.
She senses a presence sitting beside her on the bench and does not need to turn to know who it is. “I’m glad you contacted me.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“It was an ingenious way of contacting me.” She closes her eyes for a moment, then turns to face him.
Jack gazes at her, impassive as ever. “I suppose it’s . . . probably obvious to you why I’m meeting with you.”
Barely audible, she whispers, “Sydney.”
“The CIA’s given up. They found a body. The DNA match was-only 80%. Which means there is a [i]chance[/i], however small, that she may still be alive.” Jack looks down, then raises his eyes to look at her again. “And if she isn’t . . . I want to know what happened to her.”
They both watch the little girl, going down the slide again.
* * *
JAKARTA
“I’ve hacked the system; you should be receiving the surveillance feed in the next five seconds.”
Sark watches the screen, and eighteen different images pop up. He scans them quickly and frowns slightly. “I don’t see him.”
“Neither do I.” He hears her take a shaky breath.
“Sydney, you need to get out of there. It must be a decoy, a setup-the intel was false.”
“Copy.” The frustration in her tone comes across clearly.
Suddenly the tiny screens change to static. Sark presses several of the keys, but the static doesn’t disappear. “Sydney.”
No response. He hears the beginnings of a struggle before the comm clicks off.
Discarding his laptop, he exits the car. With a practiced eye, he surveys his surroundings before taking off for the front door.
Sydney could not be lost.
* * *
STARA ZAGORA
“I have no way of knowing whether you’re really willing to work with me.” Her gaze penetrates. “Or if this is a setup.”
Jack holds her stare. “No. You don’t.”
* * *
JAKARTA
Sark quickly makes his way around the club. He is well aware that he does not blend well here.
He spots the door.
It looks ajar when he reaches it. He looks down. Caught between the frame and the door is a small, jeweled bracelet. Sydney’s.
He notes wryly that Sydney’s aim has improved considerably since she joined with them.
The hallways appear deserted. Not a good sign.
He catches the tiniest flicker of movement, and leans back against the wall.
Target. He takes a single shot, and he doesn’t miss.
He takes a chance and begins to walk out again, only to fire two more shots at coming guards. Sark waits several more seconds.
No one.
Corners . . . walls . . . corridors . . .
Sark turns another corner and sees two men down . . . and two more. And carrying an unconscious Sydney.
He squeezes the trigger. Twice.
He hurries to Sydney and puts his hand under her head, pushing it up. Sydney’s eyes flutter.
“Come on, Sydney.” She makes a valiant effort to sit up straight, but falls back.
Seeing she isn’t able to move, Sark lifts her up, puts her over his shoulder, and begins walking as quickly as he can to the front of the club. He spots the door in a few seconds later.
Suddenly Sydney grabs his gun, extends her arm over his shoulder, and shoots. Three times.
She collapses back onto him, and he hears the gun clatter to the floor.
Sark chances a look back while retrieving his gun, and sees one more man lying on the ground, a few yards away.
He pushes open the door and is instantly confronted with the loud, dull, sounds of the music. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, considering he is carrying a grown woman, Sark moves towards the exit.
A couple of people stare curiously, but Sark knows they all must think Sydney’s passed out.
With an inward sigh of relief, he sees that the car is still parked outside.
He lets Sydney down on the seat gently, and climbs in, slamming the door.
The car takes off.
* * *
“Sydney’s safe. That much I can tell you. But there’s something I need for you to do before you can see her.”
* * *
Sydney is awake, staring down at her hands in her lap, slumped against the seat.
Sark silently watches her.
What a life she’s had . . . double agent . . . lies . . . betrayal . . . learning the truth about her mother . . . and her father . . .
And yet she still tries. Tries to deal with it all, to live as normally as possible, always striving to make things right.
Her eyes travel up, slowly, finally meeting his own. She slightly raises her head.
His lips touch hers first, hers hesitating for less than an instant before pulling herself toward him, with all-consuming force.
He loves her for it.
* * *
“I need you to see to the escape of Allison Doren.”
It is silent for a long, long moment.
“Consider it done.”